Righting the Wrongs
by Verdreht
Summary: The Doctor's done many things he regrets, some involving a certain undying Captain. Now he has a chance to make it right, to right the wrongs, and return what Jack should never have lost. Can he do it? And what will happen after? A Janto CoE fix-it
1. Chapter 1

A figure, hunched over a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and an empty glass, held up his hand. "Bartender, another."

The man behind the bar looked up – not an attractive bloke by any standards, and certainly not worth the figure lifting his eyes from the scuffed-up, polished wood of the bar. "Glass?" he asked. Like the man at the bar was about to have company.

_"Shall I get the glasses, sir, or will you just be taking the bottle? Bloody heathen…" Those blue eyes sparkled, though, a fondness there, and, dare Jack say it, love? _

He snorted, the R.A.F. greatcoat rising as his shoulders bobbed abruptly. "Another bottle," he corrected.

"No he doesn't," said a voice from beside him, and suddenly the barstool to his right was taken. He didn't even bother looking up, only flicking his fingers once to remind the bartender who it was paying the bill. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he lifted it to his lips and drained the last drops of liquor from it. The burn as it went down was almost soothing, but the numbness it would bring later on was even better; now, if only he could get enough built up to paralyze those damn specters in his head, then all would be well.

_Jack watched as those beautiful eyes flickered closed, watched as tears spilled from them. "It's all my fault," he whispered, cradling that shaking body to his chest. _

_ "No it's not," whispered the dying man. But he was more than just a man; he was everything. He was _Jack's_ everything. And he was dying. With each shaking breath, he was dying. _

_ "Don't speak," Jack said, brushing his thumb across that porcelain skin, now gone cold. "Save your breath." _

_ More tears spilled from those lovely eyes, and Jack could feel his heart breaking as it had never broken before._

Another bottle of whiskey appeared in front of him, and he reached for it, only to have it snatched from his grasp by a single thin hand.

"I think you've had enough," the man beside him said, sliding the bottle just out of his reach, "Jack Harkness."

Now that…_that_ was worth looking up for. Lifting his gaze from the patterns of abuse on the bar, he turned in his stool to stare at this peculiar man who seemed to know his name. That put them on uneven footing, as it turned out, because Jack had no idea who this man was.

He was young and lanky, the bones of his elbows straining against the patched elbows of his tweed suit. And on that note, who the _hell_ wore tweed anymore? And bow ties? Who wore bow ties?

_He wore ties. He always wore ties, always knotted in a perfect Windsor. Deft fingers danced over silk as he slid it from around his neck, letting it fall to the floor. The dress shirt was soon to follow, and then—_

All the same, from the gelled hair to the strong jaw, the bloke was fairly attractive. On any other day, in any other mood, Jack might've made a play at him. All right, he _definitely_ would have made a play at him. But not today. Today his heart was heavy and his head was numb and no matter what he did, he just couldn't stop thinking. It was awful, and he just wanted it to stop.

And this attractive – in that nerdy college professor sort of way – man was standing in the way of that, holding hostage the only analgesic that had a hope of even lessening some of the pain tearing at every fibre of Jack's being.

"I think I'll be the judge of that," he grumbled, gesturing for the bartender to bring him another bottle. He wouldn't let the stranger take this one. "It's rude to steal another man's drink."

Only, with one look from this annoying stranger, the bartender turned on his heel and pretended to clean glasses. "Not when that man is a step away from alcohol poisoning," he said, as if he didn't notice the glare Jack was sending his way. "Consider it an act of philanthropy. Though, I don't suppose it's really worth much; alcohol poisoning is hardly a concern for you, is it?"

_"Are you calling it quits so soon?" Jack teased, kissing one of those adorably flushed cheeks. _

_ A rich melodic chuckle came from the man leaning against him, sending vibrations echoing through his own chest. "Not all of us can afford to laugh in the face of alcohol poisoning," said the man, the rich Welsh timbre of his voice playing sweetly in Jack's ears. "When I go out, it won't be at the hands of a bottle of whiskey, thank you very much." _

_ Jack laughed, pressing another kiss to his companion's cheek. "Ah, but what a grave marking that would make…."_

"Can't you find some other miserable bastard to torment?" Jack muttered finally. "The bar's full of them, asshole; take your pick."

"Ah, but I already have." The figure had the gall to smile, and never before had Jack wanted to punch someone in the face so much for so little. "Besides, we both know that you're no ordinary miserable bastard. Just like I'm no ordinary asshole."

There was a depth to that comment, beyond just what was said, and for the first time that night, Jack focused his alcohol-blurred sight and really _looked_. And what he saw nearly knocked him clear out of his seat.

That face he'd once described as young suddenly didn't look quite so much so. Well, no, the face still looked young – _new_. But the eyes…those eyes were old, older than they had any right to be. Jack only knew one man with eyes that old.

All the air left his lungs in a single breath. "Doctor."

The stranger – only he wasn't a stranger anymore – smiled. "The one and only."

Jack sat up a little straighter. Wasn't this just his day? The one-month anniversary of Ian—_his _death, and now look who decided to pop in. Or, should he say, look Who decided to pop in?

"You look…different," Jack said after a long moment. He was going for casual, really, but he couldn't stop gaping. Between the alcohol and his brain's general unwillingness to cooperate with him today, he was having trouble getting his head around this new turn of events.

"New face," said the Doctor. "And you! Look at you! You look…well, you look….Look at you!" He threw his arms up cheerily, but then the next moment, his face fell. "I know what happened, Jack." The Doctor put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "I know what happened to Ianto Jones."

And just like that, everything Jack had spent his night trying _desperately_ not to think about hit him hard, like a gunshot straight to the chest. All the air left his lungs, and there was a lump in his throat that wouldn't seem to let a breath by. He forced it down, but even so, he couldn't keep his voice from cracking as he said, "I'll be needing that drink, Doctor."

"How delightfully American of you," the Doctor chuckled. "I'm afraid, though, that drowning your sorrows in whiskey, bad music, and worse company – present company excluded, of course – is not going to help."

Fury bubbled in Jack's chest of that. Of course he knew that booze wouldn't make it all go away – booze wouldn't bring Ianto back. "Don't you think I know that?" he growled. "But what else can I do? _I_ come back to life, you self-obsessed sod; I can't bring people back!"

"I'm sorry, Jack," the Doctor said, and even though he looked sincere enough, Jack was pissed. What right did this man have to traipse in here and make an awful night worse? He just wanted to be alone – no, he just wanted _Ianto_, but if he couldn't have him, then he didn't want anyone.

"I don't want your fucking apologies," he fumed. "You weren't there when one of the single greatest threats to mankind came. You left us to deal with it. Me and my team!" As he spoke, he leaned closer, forcing the man to meet his eyes, to feel his fury, to _share his guilt_! "Well we won, Doctor! Aren't you so proud? We won, and we lost so much more than you can ever imagine. _I_ lost more than you can ever imagine!"

_"I love you," he whispered, because he didn't have the strength to speak any louder. Those three words, words that would've, should've made him the happiest man alive, seemed to drive a knife into his heart. Now though, he knew those words for what they were: a goodbye. A consolation prize for what was to be the greatest loss of his incredibly long life. _

_ But Ianto couldn't say goodbye. This couldn't be happening. Jack had never cared so much about a human before, and though he knew it would end eventually, this was just too soon. This was _not_ goodbye. "Don't," he commanded, because the tears in his eyes and the lump in his throat wouldn't allow him to say anything more. _

_ Even as he said it, those blue eyes slipped closed. Desperate, Jack shook him. He had to open his eyes, he had to get up, he had to _live_. This couldn't be goodbye. "Ianto. Ianto? Ianto, stay with me. Ianto, stay with me please!" he begged, slapping his hand lightly against those pale-as-death cheeks. It was wrong – those cheeks were supposed to be red and warm, from embarrassment, from a late night of drinking, from blood coursing fresh and vibrant in the afterglow of sex. Anything! He wasn't supposed to be cold! "Stay with me, stay with me please!" _

It wasn't until he felt the moisture drop to the back of his hand that Jack realized he was crying. It didn't matter, though. Tears wouldn't bring Ianto back, just like the booze wouldn't. Just like the Doctor wouldn't – hadn't. "You left us, and he died! I held him as he died and you could've stopped it, but you fucking didn't!" He grabbed the Doctor by his bow-tied collar, shaking him roughly. "If you couldn't help when we needed you the most, then what good are you?" he screamed. "What good are you?"

The Doctor's hand found his, untangling his white-knuckled fingers from his tie as delicately as he could manage. "I'm no good at all," he said softly, holding Jack's shaking hand in his. "I mean, I wasn't. Not then, and for that I am so, so sorry." Slowly, he slid off the stool, letting Jack's hand fall down to his lap. The hurt in those eyes of his made the Doctor's hearts ache, because he knew he'd let this man down. And not just with 456. All those times he'd left him behind, all those times he'd shut him down and shoved him out, he'd let this man down.

He wasn't the same Doctor he was back then. He wanted to make it right this time, wanted to right all of his wrongs. He was resolved, now, as he backed away from Jack, watching those miserable, dead, _empty_ eyes follow him. "I'm going to fix this," the Doctor promised. "I'm going to fix this."

And then he turned, his feet sliding on crushed peanuts and dirt and God only knew what else. If he was going to fix this, he needed time; he needed the _past_. And he _was_ going to fix this, because he was the Doctor, and that was what he did.

He was going to right the wrongs.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack couldn't take his eyes off the cold weight in his arms. He knew Gwen was waiting for him, knew that she hurt too, but he just couldn't…couldn't bear to look away. He was so pale...so...lifeless.

"He just wanted me to remember him," he whispered, tears streaming down his face as his fingers caressed one cold cheek. "He said he loved me, and I couldn't even give him that. This is the least I can do. I have to remember."

"Jack, you have to let him go," Gwen said, coming to rest her hand on his shoulder. His first instinct was to shrug her off, but he forced himself not to. She was hurting, too. She had lost something, too.

_Just not as much._

A laugh forced its way from his throat, hollow and scratchy. "If I let him go, I'll forget him," he told her, tracing the angry red line on Ianto's cheek, the only color on his otherwise sheet-white face. "I promised I wouldn't forget him, Gwen. I promised him."

"I know," Gwen whispered. Her own voice cracked, and he knew that if he turned, if he managed to break his eyes away from the man in his arms, the man lying on that cold metal slab of the morgue, for just one moment, he would've seen tears streaming down her face as well. But he couldn't, and he didn't.

"It's all my fault," he choked out, head bowing as he cried into Ianto's still-soft hair. "Even though he said it wasn't, it was. I shouldn't have let him come."

"It wasn't your fault, Jack. You couldn't have known."

"She's right, you know," said a voice, and surprise alone had Jack turning alongside Gwen to see just who it was that had invaded their space. No one knew about the Warehouse. And yet, there stood a scrawny-looking bloke – one that neither Jack nor Gwen knew, dressed in an odd assembly of tweed and bow ties.

Gwen let go of Jack's shoulder, her hand instead falling to the gun Jack knew she had concealed at her hip. "I think you'd better leave," she said.

Only he didn't. Instead, he clapped his hands together, striding forward with a smile on his face. "You must be Gwen Cooper! Jack's told me all about you." He glanced around her at Jack, who was watching him with tear-stained, confused eyes. "She's a fair bit more plucky than you led me to believe." He turned back to her. "Good on you, Mam. Now, if you don't mind, I _am_ here for a reason. A very important reason, as Jack made – erm, _will_ make – abundantly clear."

"I haven't even met you," Jack said. He sounded absent, like he wasn't really in the conversation.

The Doctor just smiled. "Oh, but you have. I mean, you will. Or actually, you have. You definitely have," he said. "Sorry, new face always make introductions a little bit awkward."

"New face?" Gwen asked.

The Doctor turned to her, sticking out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you for the first time, Gwen Cooper, and believe you me, that isn't something I get to say very often to you humans. Always popping up in my timelines, making a right mess of things." He pulled his hand back, slapping them together. "Right then, Jack, let's have a look see."

As he approached, Jack pulled Ianto closer. Not intentionally, he just…couldn't help it. No one was going to take Ianto away from him – he couldn't let him go. Not yet. "Doctor, what are you doing here?"

"Fulfilling a promise that I made to you. Well, will make to you. Though I suppose if this works, I won't make the promise at all. There won't be any need." He chuckled. "The whole time traveling thing really is a bugger explain. You'll pardon me." It wasn't a request, and the Doctor moved forward to stand beside Jack, in front of the body he clutched in his arms.

"So you're Ianto Jones," he whispered to himself, reaching into his pocket for his screwdriver. He flicked it on, scanning it up and down the pale, cold form, his lips pulling lower and lower into a frown as he continued. "All his internal organs…blood vessels…all of it's a right mess. Poor, poor Ianto Jones. What did they do to you?" He must have suffered, this man who barely looked old enough to drink, much less risk his life to save the world that, from his research, hadn't been all too kind to him in the very first place.

He saw Jack tense out of the corner of his eye. "Alien invasion," he said in a cracked voice. "We called them—"

"456," the Doctor finished for him. "You told me about it – _will_ tell me about it – and I did some research while I was searching." And not just about the aliens. He'd been curious, after all, to know what sort of man could force the great and promiscuous Jack Harkness to get so attached. What sort of man could not only love someone like Jack…but get him to love them as well?

"Searching?" Gwen asked. She was keeping her distance, but she was clearly still involved in the conversation. "Searching for what?"

"For a way to right the wrongs." The Doctor reached into the inside pocket of his tweed blazer, plucking out a small metal cylinder. "For this."

Gwen moved closer, looking at the thing curiously. "What's in there?" she asked.

The Doctor smiled. "Something old, something new; something borrowed," he turned to Jack, "and something _you_ ought to be quite familiar with." He twisted the lid off the cylinder, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then everything did. Gold light rose from the lip of the container, lighting the Doctor's face for the briefest of moments, before he tipped the container towards Ianto. "Go on, friends, do your thing."

Jack watched as the light fell on Ianto's body, seeping in through his parted lips, lingering on his cold skin, right before their very eyes. "Are those what I think they are?" he breathed, his hand wavering over Ianto's face. He wanted to touch him, wanted to hold him, but he hesitated. Maybe it was his imagination, but as the golden light danced over his face, he could almost feel…warmth.

Suddenly, there was a gasp – a panicked, agonized sound as Ianto's chest lurched up. Eyelids snapped open revealing fever bright blue eyes, darting around frantically. Searching…searching.

"Voila! Behold, the miracle of nanogenes!" the Doctor exclaimed grandly, but his theatrics went by unnoticed by at least two in the room.

"Ianto! Ianto breathe!" Jack said, pressing his hand to Ianto's cheek and forcing his head straight, holding him against his chest. "It's okay, it's okay." He knew better than anyone that coming back to life wasn't a pleasant experience, and he'd never had to deal with rigor mortis.

Ianto was panicking, taking in quick gasps of air as his eyes darted about. He didn't know what was going on – one second, there had been nothing, and now he was here and everything hurt. Someone was holding him, though, he realized. Someone warm and familiar.

"Jack," he breathed, because that was all he could manage. His throat ached horribly, and his mouth was dry as a bone.

Jack smiled despite himself, stroking his thumb along Ianto's cheek. "I'm here," he said.

"And so's he," the Doctor said behind him, clapping Jack once on the back. "Happy endings all around! Probably going to be a bit stiff, though. Seems I might've left it a bit too long."

Stiff wasn't so much the problem, it looked like, as breathing was. As the nanogenes worked their magic, repairing the damage left behind by the 456 virus, Ianto was struggling to pull in breath after painful breath.

"Jack," he repeated breathlessly.

Pressing a gentle kiss to Ianto's forehead, he rubbed his palm quickly across his bare chest. He figured maybe it would help get the blood stimulated, maybe loosen up the muscles to help him breathe a little better.

"Welcome back, Ianto," Gwen said, coming to stand beside the Doctor.

As his breathing began to even out, Ianto allowed his gaze to break from Jack's, letting his eyes wander to the two other people in the room, and then up to the ceiling. "Back…I was dead," he whispered. "How am I back?"

The Doctor raised his hand. "That'd be me, thanks," he said. "And these little fellows." He popped the cap back on the cylinder – it seemed the nanogenes had retreated back into the cylinder, now that their work was done – and wiggled it before tucking it back into his coat pocket.

"You're the Doctor," Ianto realized. It seemed like the only logical conclusion, and presently, he was grasping onto anything logical. Anything to make sense, because right now, everything was all over the place, and it was terrifying.

The Doctor looked at Jack. "Cute and brilliant; I can see why you like him. On that note, though, you might want to get him somewhere else…" He gestured vaguely about himself, and only then did Ianto seem to realize he was in a morgue. Cute and brilliant, yes; observant? Maybe not right yet.

"I'm in the morgue," Ianto whispered, his eyes going impossibly wide. They wandered down, found the plastic of the body bag he'd been lying in, and that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. "Oh God, I'm in the morgue!" he screamed. He started thrashing, kicking at the plastic of the body bag, trying to push himself off the metal slab. It was a place for dead people, and he wasn't dead, and he had been, and—

"Ianto, stop!" Jack shouted, tightening his hold on the frantic Welshman. He pulled him tight against his chest, wrapping his arm around his narrow shoulders. "It's okay, I'll take you back to my room, but you've got to hold still for a second."

"It's too cold," Ianto protested, desperate tears leaking down his face. No one could blame him for it – dying and waking up in a morgue, all stiff and barely breathing, was not an experience anyone would take calmly. Not even Jack, and he'd done it more times than he cared to admit.

"I know, Yan. I know. Just give yourself a minute to get your bearings, make sure everything's in working order."

Gwen put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll go get you a blanket, sweetheart," she said, giving it a comforting squeeze before disappearing off out of the morgue.

"In the meantime…" Jack shrugged out of his R.A.F. greatcoat and pulled it around Ianto's shoulders. "That help any?"

After a moment, Ianto nodded, twisting his fingers in the coat and pulling it around himself while Jack returned his arms around him.

"Erm, Jack, I don't suppose you have any rubbish bins handy hereabouts, do you?" asked the Doctor as he looked around the place.

"In the corner, over there," Jack said, nodding towards the item in question. "Why?"

Before the Doctor gave his response, though, Ianto let out a groan, leaning his head back against Jack's shoulder. "Because I think your Ianto is about to be sick."

Just as predicted, Ianto tossed it, right as the rubbish bin appeared in his lap courtesy of a sympathetic Doctor. Said Doctor patted him on what little bit of his back Jack wasn't blocking, smiling supportively. "Atta boy. Lots of unsavory stuff in you right about now, I'd imagine, what with the rotted-out organs and just the tiniest bit of decomposition. Better out than in, you know."

At that, Ianto retched harder, and Jack flashed him a hard look. "You're not helping," he said, rubbing Ianto's back soothingly as heave after wracking heave sent blackish-brown muck spilling from his lips. The smell alone was enough to make Jack's stomach toss a little bit; he couldn't imagine how awful it had to be to actually be the one throwing it up.

"Right then, sorry." Giving Ianto a few more tentative pats, the Doctor straightened. Gwen chose about that time to come walking in with the blankets, only to stop and press the back of her hand to her nose.

"Oh God, what is that smell?" she asked. "It's absolutely awful!" Then her eyes fell on Ianto, and her lips formed a small "o."

"Try tasting it," Ianto groaned. It seemed he'd gotten the worst of it out, and now he had just reverted to shaking, with the occasional dry heave doubling him over the bin. Mostly they were just false alarms, though.

"Yes, well, all atrocious vomiting aside, at least you're alive," said the Doctor.

And in that moment, Ianto did something truly miraculous: he smiled. Green as he was, and still cold, shaking, and impossibly wide-eyed. "Yeah," he whispered, and let his head fall back against Jack's shoulder again as the older man pressed a kiss to his temple. "That is something, isn't it?"


End file.
